


the other side of living without you

by TheElusiveBadger



Series: i solemnly swear (to always be there) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Jewish Character, F/M, Gen, Hogwarts Professors, James Potter Lives, MACUSA | Magical Congress of the United States of America, Marauders Friendship, Muggles, New York City, The Golden Trio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 17:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11257842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheElusiveBadger/pseuds/TheElusiveBadger
Summary: October 31, 1981, Lily Potter is found dead next to her son's crib, and James Potter will never shake the guilt of leaving her alone that night. Lost in grief, he packs up his miraculous son and his best friend to start a new life on the other side of the world, but the past is not easily left behind. When his ten-year-old son receives a letter James once would have viewed with joy, he struggles to come to terms with letting go, especially in the midst of devious teachers, long-buried secrets, festering bitterness between distant friends, and the remnants and whispers of a man that should be dead.





	the other side of living without you

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of sequel to a previous prequel story of mine that depicts James meeting Lily's parents. I had a thought in the middle of writing that, which was 'what if James hadn't been in Godric's Hollow that night?' Obviously, there are other James!lives stories, and while I would have loved to keep Lily alive, the fact is that her protection is what allowed Harry to live and become the chosen one. This story will weave a lot of my personal headcanons into it (but who hasn't done that with Marauders fics I ask? Its the joy of writing them.), and take a long time to write, since I have so many ideas, but I hope you'll enjoy.

~  _ November, 1981 _

 

Yael Kowalski wakes up at half-past midnight on November 2, 1981 with a pounding headache and a series of loud raps on her door. She raises herself from the couch with cotton mouth, the taste of stale rum and coke lingering in the back of her throat, and tramples on top of empty cups and her discarded Princess Leia Halloween costume as she stumbles. She keeps her eyes screwed shut to block out the light of the candles burning down to the wick on her coffee table, and moans as the knocks grow louder and increasingly more frantic.

“Hold your horses,” she mutters, “I’m coming.” Rather than hold on, though, a loud  _ thud _ replies to her, indicating that either the dick who woke her up dropped something or kicked the door. 

When she gets to the door, she nearly wrenches her arm from its socket with the amount of force she uses. The angry tirade brewing in her pain-filled brain, however, dies at the sight that greets her. She freezes mid-motion, hand outstretched in the air, her mouth half-open, and her stomach clenches. 

“Jaime?” she says in a whisper. 

Her cousin looks like death warmed over. His jacket is torn, and there are bits of dark red on his torn white t-shirt. His hair is a mess, messier than it’s usual state, and he’s shuffling back and forth, a dark, broken look on his face and his normally olive skin starkly pale. His hazel-eyes are red-rimmed, glassy and unfocused, and in his arms is a baby. The small boy has an odd-shaped cut on his forehead, still angry and smarting, with bits of blood dried up around the skin. Leaning against her doorway is one final person, her cousin’s best friend, Sirius Black. She’s known him for almost ten years now, and not once has she seen his grey eyes so grief-stricken, or so angry. His weight rests against the doorframe as if the second he moves is the second he falls apart.  

She swallows past the lump in her throat and steps forward, both arms outstretched in offering. Her cousin quickly moves forward, and she pulls his head down to her shoulder as they embrace, careful not to squish the baby. “What happened?” she asks. She feels him shake against her. 

She is conscious of the distinct  _ lack _ of someone standing in her hallway.  _ Please, no _ , she thinks,  _ It’s only been a couple of months since David. Since Mom and Dad. Not Lily, too. _

But Sirius doesn’t need to confirm it, in a voice that lacks emotion in only the ways that those truly grieving can achieve, for her to know it’s true. She pulls the three inside, looking up and down her hallway to make sure none of her nosy neighbors have been spying, and shuts the door, locking it with a spell to keep them from being disturbed. She places her wand back into her long, curly hair, using the tool as a stick to hold together her bun. 

She leaves the two men in the living room to make coffee, her hands trembling as she removes chipped mugs from the cabinets and pours a generous amount of rum in each portion. She lingers in the doorway of the kitchen for a moment as she levitates the cups, her heart squeezing at the sight. On the couch, her cousin sits with shoulders slumped, and his hands flick up and down in constant motion, at a loss of where to stay. They drift to his face, as if he wants to cradle his head in his hands, then back to his son, who he’s not let go of. She’s keenly aware that James fears to let the boy out of his sight. 

Next to him, Sirius sits, close enough for support, his side plastered against James’. He’s got on hand on James’ thigh, and the other rubs up and down his back, but his eyes are circled by dark bruises, so Yael figures he’s not slept for days. 

Silently, she hands them the mugs, and sits on the edge of the coffee table. 

Later on, after a couple painstakingly long hours, James’ falls asleep with his head on Sirius’ lap, passed out from the sheer weight of emotion. Harry, too, curls up against his father’s right shoulder, cradled protectively in his arms, lost in the world of dreams. Not Sirius though. He keeps a vigil over the two, and he looks at them with an unreadable look in his grey eyes, one that puts Yael on edge. 

Not of him, though, but  _ for _ him. Sirius, while dark and cold at times, is usually so bright and vivid around her cousin. To see him like this unsettles her. 

“Why are you here?” she asks finally. He doesn’t even look in her direction. 

“He even killed the cat,” Sirius says. Yael’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. She’s used to him being evasive, but she hardly thinks this situation warrants it. 

“What?”

The left corner of his mouth lifts up in a small, bitter smile. “The cat,” Sirius repeats. He runs a hand through James’ hair, brushing messy strands away from his forehead. “Voldemort. D’Artagnan was a vicious bastard, probably tried to claw him up. We found his corpse near the door and that—that’s when we knew.”  

She pictures the large, orange cat with his guts torn up by a slashing spell. Red on the ground and glassy yellow eyes. She hopes the creature got a few licks in. 

“Dumbledore—” Sirius stops, and his face tightens, but she’s not sure why. He looks angry, but that doesn’t seem right. Yael has only heard good things about Albus Dumbledore. “He told us at the funeral that Lily left some sort of protection. Blood magic.” A bitter laugh escapes him, and he seems far, far away. Yael feels a chill go down her spine. “Started nattering on about how Harry had to go live with Lily’s muggle sister. That he’d be  _ safe _ there. As if James couldn’t take care of him!” 

He looks to her finally. His eyes are cold; cold and determined. “I’ll be damned if they take Harry away from James.” Then, he shrugs. “There was no where else for us to go.” 

Yael nods. Britain and America have been at odds ever since the escape of Gellert Grindelwald before World War II. The extradition of a Brit seeking asylum in the United States from the magical government in the United Kingdom is  _ extremely _ tangled. It takes years for the proper paperwork to go through. And her cousin isn’t even a criminal. 

“We’ll start looking for a place for you three next week,” she says, already prepared to fire call her grandmother. Her Great Aunt Tina’s ties to the MACUSA should still come in handy. “Once sitting shiva is done.” 

She doesn’t even blink at the inclusion of Sirius. She knows he’s not going anywhere. As she rises, she smiles sadly at her cousin and his son, and rubs a gentle hand on the baby’s soft cheek. “At least here he can grow up a normal kid.” As she says the words, she knows deep inside that  _ nothing _ will ever be normal for this sleeping little boy named Harry Potter. 

In a few seconds, she swishes her wand and sends over blankets and pillows to Sirius. Numbly, he arranges everything around the three bodies squished on her couch, and she walks back to her room, her heart heavy with the weight of all the dead lingering in her small, Manhattan apartment. As she drifts to sleep, she sees a flash of green light, and imagines that she can hear a loud, high-pitched scream. 

 

~~~~~

~  _ June, 1991 _

 

Harry groans with delight and throws his Spiderman backpack onto the floor as soon as he steps in the bakery. The deep, yeasty smell of baked challah, bagels, and scones wafts through the open door and out into the busy streets of Flushing. In the glass bakery display clases are elaborately designed desserts: almond flavoured kneazles, apple and cinnamon dragons, griffin shaped rolls with a glaze of lemon and chocolate, alongside batches of rugelach, black-and-white cookies, various flavors of cupcakes and cookies, and tiny little tarts with ripe fruit. Behind the case, in wooden baskets lined with checkered cloth, lay donuts with jams fillings, and next to the register is a round jar full to the brim with biscotti. 

His Aunt Yael’s bakery is small, but popular, and successful even after the fire that burned down the last Kowalski-owned bakery in Manhattan over ten years ago. 

Eye’s widening with intent, Harry skirts around Mrs. Goldblum, a white-haired and stooped back regular of the bakery, and quickly reaches up to open the biscotti jar. Mindful of his Aunt Yael, whose back is turned as she wraps up a couple of loaves of challah for Mrs. Goldblum, he silently moves. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees a smirk on Chava’s, the seventeen-year-old part-time shopgirl, face as she watches him while restocking the coffee pots. 

“Touch that, and you won’t be getting biscotti for a month,” Harry hears from behind him. He groans at the sound, and turns around with a sheepish smile. The sleeves of his father’s beige henley are rolled up to his elbows, flour coats his arms and streaks through his messy black hair, and his apron is stained, but he somehow still looks intimidating. 

“But  _ dad _ ,” Harry begins to say. His stomach rumbles. He’s not had anything to eat in  _ four _ hours, not since lunch when he’d scarfed down the red bean bun Sirius picks up daily from an Asian bakery a few streets away. “Just one! It won’t spoil dinner!” 

Aunt Yael scoffs as she begins to ring up Mrs. Goldblum, the click-clack of the cash register seeming almost like vindication. Yael’s a pretty woman, with thick curly hair that’s tied back with a red scarf dotted with butterflies keeping it away from her forehead, and warm brown eyes. “That’s what you said about the flourless cake during Seder. And the hamentashen  _ every _ Purim. You’re a glutton,  _ boychick _ .” 

“It’s amazing he’s so skinny!” Mrs. Goldblum laughs. She’s known him since he was a baby, though Harry doesn’t remember this. All he knows is that she’s quick to tattle on him to his father whenever he tries to pass notes to his friend Jesse during Hebrew lessons. 

Given that she is the teacher, he supposes that’s her job. 

“Jaime always was, too,” Yael teases. James rolls his eyes, and comes over to ruffle his son’s hair. Harry scowls, and tries to smooth the unruly locks of hair back down, shooting a quick glance to Chava, and then self-consciously fixes his glasses on his nose. She’s not looking, her back turned as she tongs donuts into a bag for another customer, but the ends of her blonde braid brush against her pink shirt. “Skinny as a twig. Still is. Genetics.” 

Playfully, James smirks. “On my dad’s side, no doubt.” He gestures to his cousin’s stomach, which is still round with leftover baby weight she’s not quite managed to shake off since her son was born last December. 

He ducks as Yael throws a used rag towards his head, laughing, then scoops up Harry’s backpack off the floor. He gestures for Harry to follow him, slingling the fabric Peter Parker like a pendulum, and the two of them duck back into the kitchen. It’s half-past four, and the bakery’s about to close, so the last batches in the ovens are for them to take home tonight. 

The kitchen is stacked with dirty bowls and rolling pins. Help comes to clean up every morning, but his father’s not known for being fastidious, so now there’s a million different mixtures clinging to the sides of metal, stacked on counters, and cluttering up the medium-sized kitchen. Shoved into a small catty-corner, next to a KitchenAid mixer, is a beat-up black radio, the low sounds of the Eagles crooning about hotels still filtering through the room. Resting on one bench is a finished tart filled with raspberries and chocolate, while next to it, there’s a half-drunk glass of water and an empty container from some restaurant. James’ jacket, brown and leather, is thrown over the side of the fridge, clinging to the freezer, and it hits his father in the face as he opens the appliance. 

“Did you get your math test back?” James asks, rummaging through the fridge, and pulling out some crackers and hummus. He opens it, pushes away some bowls, then places it on a counter. Harry quickly goes to scoop up some of the snack. 

“Yeah,” Harry says. He glares at his backpack where the offending piece of paper lay, mocking him with red ink. “Eighty.” 

James nods and snags a cracker as well. Blotches of paint litter his hands between his fingers and across his palms; reds and greens and blues, and on the table there’s a half-finished piece with eerie, moving willow trees, and a blood-red moon. “That’s not so bad.” 

“It’s  _ horrible _ ,” Harry says miserably. No matter how hard he tries, pre-algebra is not easy for him. He’s good at every other class, he even came in top of his science fair last spring, but numbers are evil. 

“You sound like your mum,” James tells him, and he runs a hand through his already messy hair. Sometimes, on certain dates but especially during Halloween, his father gets sad, eyes distant, and doesn’t mention Lily Potter. Other times, he tells Harry all the things he’ll never get to know about her, and in those brief moments, Harry can picture this woman he’s never met. “Just as much of a perfectionist.” 

Suddenly, a voice pipes up, “Because you’re not? Bull.” 

Harry doesn’t jump back in shock at the sound of another British accent. This one is cool and calm, arrogant in a way, but familiar. He reaches over and grabs the mirror that’s buried under a pile of unwashed bowls, and sees his godfather’s smirking face in the glass. “Harry, don’t let him fool you. He used to proofread all his letters to your mother  _ five _ times before he’d send them out.” 

James glares. “Aren’t you still at work for another hour? Get back to it, Pads.” 

Sirius leans back in his leather swivel work chair, hands behind his head, and dragonhide issue boots up on his desk. His hair is short now, though for most of Harry’s life it was long enough to put back into a low ponytail, but he’s chopped it so that it falls elegantly just below his ears. He’s still young-looking, though he’s already thirty-one, and handsome. Harry’s father is too, he figures, at least if Chava’s blushing is any indication, and his friend Abigail swears it is. He’s not going gray, or bald, and there’s only really faint laugh lines around his hazel eyes, but other than that, he’s just Dad. 

“I sent Scuttlebum out to decharm Finkel’s teapot from singing ‘Safety Dance’ for the twelfth time. I need a break,” Sirius replies. “Not a job for aurors, that. How is a teapot dangerous?” 

Sometimes, Harry thinks Sirius makes this stuff up in order that he doesn’t worry him. He’s seen  _ Law and Order _ . He knows that cops and aurors usually deal with death and blood and bad things. Uncle John doesn’t talk about his work in serious terms either, but then, he’s a white collar detective. The biggest busts he performs involves will forgeries. 

“I think she just likes to see you,” James says with a smirk. He rests one shoulder against the silver fridge, and his right foot’s up on the stool, with his chin placed in his hand. “Or your arse.” 

“Dad!” Harry says in protest. “I’m eleven! My innocent mind doesn’t need that image.” 

“You’ll wish in a few years to have an arse as pinchable as this, Bambi,” Sirius jokes. Distantly, a voice says something, and Harry sees his godfather roll his eyes before he’s yelling “What?” A mishmash reply, and then Sirius turns back to them. “Alas, duty calls. See you at home.” 

“You two are so lame,” Harry tells him in lieu of a goodbye, then digs another cracker into his hummus. 

James raises an eyebrow. “If we’re so lame I guess you don’t want to go to Gascony for your birthday? I’ll just tell your aunt that she’s wasting a trip. She can stay home and knit or something.” 

He starts to rise as if to make for pen and paper at that very moment. 

“No!” Harry protests, eyes wide. He flings his arms out, elbows on the edge of the table, and says, “You’re the most awesome dad in the world!” 

“Of course I am,” James says with a finger on his chin as he nods with agreement. “Now come on, Bambi, let’s go. I can practically hear Yael’s brain screaming to close the doors.” 

“You’re not the one with legilimency skills, cousin!” the reply yell comes. 

Forty minutes later, James, Aunt Yael, and Harry open the gate to the Queens’ townhouse that the Potters-plus-Black have lived in since 1982, after they’d moved out of a small Manhattan flat. It’s not huge, though decently-sized, with three bedrooms and two baths, but it’s more than enough for the three of them. There’s a basement downstairs, which is an art studio cluttered with canvases and easels, and a converted alcove that James transfigured into a fourth “bedroom” for guests, which usually means Uncle Remus during the summer months when he’s not teaching at Ilvermorny, and a large kitchen. There’s a fireplace in the living room, hooked up to the floo, so Sirius has an easy enough commute, and a driveway, though none of them own a car.  

James balances a box of donuts in one arm, pushing his right knee against the door, as he struggles with his keys. Next to him, Aunt Yael rolls her eyes, a bag of challah in her right hand, and complains about his pack rat tendencies in a loud voice, while Harry bounces back and forth on the balls of his feet. He can smell soup bubbling inside, and his stomach rumbles again. 

Suddenly, James lets out an  _ oomph _ , and crashes into the tile of the foyer as the door swings open. His grandmother (though she’s not really his grandmother, but the closest one Harry’s got) stands there with his tiny cousin Mischa resting against her thin shoulder. Queenie Kowalski’s hair is a shock of white-wire curls, her face lined with age, but she’s still tall with a stately grace that she’s told any who will listen drew Jacob Kowalski to her when she was young. 

“You’re ten minutes late,” Queenie says. She smoothly steps around a cursing James as he rubs at his knee, the box of donuts thankfully not smushed. “Mischa wants his feeding.” 

Aunt Yael quickly takes her son, disappearing to go do feeding things that Harry does not want to walk in on again, and Harry gives his bubbe a hug. 

Their foyer is made with dark wooden walls, and on every available space there is either a portrait, often of seemingly random animals such as stags, or lilies, or moving pictures of Harry as he grows. Hanging at the top of the walls, dipping down every so often, are string lights of fake willow-o-wisps, the lights bouncing magically from one end to the other as they twinkle. 

“I smell soup. Is it chicken?” he asks. On his feet now, James gags at the thought, and drops his keys in the bowl on the small end table next to the door. Cluttered around the key bowl are several open letters, a bunch of empty wrappers, and a soccer ball. Underneath it are several cat toys, and a bed that the orange ball of fluff, Galadriel, hasn’t slept in once in seven years. 

Queenie laughs. “And risk your father starving until the kugel? No, honey.” A conspiratorial smirk slits across her face. “I made a baked chicken for the rest of us though.” 

Every other day, Queenie uses magic to make meals, but during holidays and on Fridays, she’ll spend a few hours doing things the no-maj way, just like Jacob taught her. Harry thinks her food tastes wonderful either way, much better than dad’s attempts at cooking anything not bread or pastries or dessert, which often end up burnt, and Sirius’ boiled vegetables. 

“Awesome!” 

James mock gags again, then begins to rifle through the mail. Queenie freezes, her body stiff, and she moves her wrist smoothly under his, pulling out an envelope. Harry watches, confusion building, as his father’s back tenses, shoulders straight, and his left hand moves slowly to grasp the paper. Harry can’t pick up any writing, only the triangle folding that seals the envelope, and he bites his lip. 

“This came around noon,” Queenie says. “The owl’s waiting in the kitchen. Persistent little dear.” 

“Is it my Illvermorny letter?” Harry asks. He’s been sending letters to Uncle Remus for three months wanting to know when they’d be sent out. “Is it?” 

“Merlin’s beard!” Harry hears at the same time that the fireplace in the living room makes the tell-tale swooshing sound of an incoming floo. “You couldn’t do that in the bathroom, Yael?” 

“Please, as if you care,” Harry hears his aunt retort. He tunes out their bickering, though, and focuses on his father, who doesn’t answer him. He waits, three seconds, then five, then another twenty, before he asks again. 

“Dad, is it for me?” 

James turns around with a fake smile on his face. Harry knows it’s false because there’s no twinkle in his eyes, and no crinkles. There’s not even any teeth. “You’ll get it after dinner. Go get the grape juice from the cabinet, will you? And make sure the table’s set before John gets here.” 

Voice small, Harry says, “Dad?” 

James’ face falls for a moment from its mask into something tight and sad. It sends an uneasy pang through Harry’s entire body, and for the first time, he wonders if the letter bodes ill news. His father puts a hand on his shoulder, grip firm but not tight. 

“Nothing bad, Bambi,” he says in a reassuring tone. “We’ll talk about it later.” 

Slowly, Harry nods, then runs into the dining room where candles are set and dishes are stacked, to go over to the cabinet to pull out the grape juice. In the corner, the cat opens one eye and lets out a tiny meow, before she falls back asleep. Harry sets down the grape juice, opens the bag of challah Yael must have left there, and begins to put everything in its place. As he works, his mind runs through a million possibilities concerning the contents of the mysterious envelope, and he can’t shake the feeling that whatever it is, it’s going to change his life. 

 

 

 

Two hours later, his cousin and her husband, as well as his aunt, go back to their own place in Bayside. James breathes through the tight sensation in his chest as he leans against the doorway to the dining room, and rests his head against the mahogany post. Head pounding, he rubs at his temple with his thumb. A couple of feet away, Sirius quickly swipes the used dishes from the table, stacking them high in a pile, then swishes his wand and sends them into the kitchen. His right hand drifts to his jean pocket, where the weight of the envelope he’d unceremoniously shoved in there earlier feels like an anchor around his ankle. 

In the living room, the television blasts an episode of  _ Dinosaurs _ and James hopes that the dulcet sounds of “not the mama!” drowns out the sound of Sirius asking, “Are you going to give it to him?” 

James’ lips twists into a mockery of a smirk. “Not like I can keep it from him. Hooty McDelivery Wings hasn’t left the kitchen window sill. Probably got ten more on standby.” 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. Every part of him wants to. The thought of it—of sending Harry  _ there _ —no. It doesn’t matter if the school is the best, or that he met Lily and Sirius and Remus and Peter there. It doesn’t matter if those were some of the best years of his life. 

All England did in the end was take from him. Old fears wash through him like a wave, choking him until he feels like he can’t speak past the rampant onslaught of panic. Lily, red hair fanned out behind her, body stiff and still, eyes glassy, and his baby boy screaming in the crib. Next to her, black robes a grim reaper shroud, and another body, one that he can’t unsee, even in his nightmares, face flat and harsh and terrifying. 

James grits his teeth as Sirius replies, “Could always set the cat on them. She left two pigeons in my bed the other day. Big as subway rats!” 

James doesn’t reply, but he hears Sirius sigh. Then, his best friend is standing in front of him, and he places his hand on James’ shoulder. “You don’t have to send him there. Remus said he’s a guarantee for Illvermorny.” 

There’s a hint of trepidation in Sirius voice, too. It’s a note that James hasn’t heard in a long time, not since the months when Dumbledore warned them to run and hide. He’s seen Sirius chase murderers and dark wizards and come back with a smirk on his face, but now there’s worry in his eyes. 

A heavy sigh, then James moves and rests his entire weight against his friend. “What am I supposed to do?” he asks, voice muffled, and slightly dramatic. “He’s already seen it. I can’t exactly say ‘oh, sorry Bambi, wrong address, this letter’s actually for Henry Porter.’ He’s not stupid.” 

Sirius’ arms come up and rest around his waist loosely in comfort. “You sure about that?” Sirius says in a teasing voice, tinged with concern. “He’s half-you, after all.” 

James laughs, though most of him doesn’t feel the mirth. As if sensing the usual cheering up methods fail, Sirius’ grip tightens. “It’s going to be fine, Prongs. Nothing’s going to take him from you.” His friend’s voice goes low. “ _ Nothing _ .” 

Then, Sirius pulls back and smiles. “Go on, go out there. You’re useless in here anyway.” 

“I can put away a dish!” 

“Yes,” Sirius agrees, “but will you? I think not.” 

James retreats to the sound of the radio in the adjoining kitchen being switched on, the sound of Freddie Mercury almost like a lilting march song, as if the long-dead singer’s encouraging him. What, though, he’s encouraging, James doesn’t know. The letter continues to burn a hole in his pocket, and he almost looks down to see if it’s physically done so. Common sense prevails, but his mind still sticks to the idea of binning the letter entirely. He wonders,  _ surely if I wrote to McGonagall she’d stop the tram car of parchment that inevitably follows?  _

The episode Harry’s on the edge of the couch watching with wide green eyes is nearly over, the animated puppet characters doing whatever humanlike dinosaurs do. The living room is a bit of a mess, evidence Sirius hasn’t been home in a few days. There’s a stack of X-Men comics on the coffee table, alongside empty mugs and a pile of cat treats. A few magazines, a Quidditch Weekly open to the middle, and a half-eaten plate of biscuits. There’s an afghan thrown onto the floor next to it, and on it rests an orange fluff cleaning her delicate paws, while in the corner there’s a pile of coats: three raincoats, all red, and a light beige spring jacket of Harry’s. Cat toys litter various spots of the wood floor, and James’ wand is laying innocently next to the large bookcase. 

Next to Harry, there’s a pile of textbooks, and a notebook scrawled with illegible notes. His son’s handwriting is like watching a thestral try to place pen to paper, all hooves and no fingers. James is amazed  _ anyone _ can read it, let alone Harry’s teachers. 

“Scoot over, kid,” he tells his son, grabbing the remote from the arm of the burgundy couch. He flings himself onto the cushions, long legs coming up to rest on the comic book stack. His right sock has a hole in it, and his big toe is sticking through. As soon as the show ends, he changes the channel, settling on a movie,  _ Back to the Future _ , unmindful of his son’s protests. 

With one arm, he pulls him closer, ruffling his hair. Harry scowls. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for bed?” James asks. 

Harry pats down one section of his curls, while the other side looks like an angry porcupine. “It’s Friday!” he says. “I never go to bed at nine on Fridays.” 

James pretends to look at his watch. Well, his bare wrist where a watch normally would be. “Is it?” he says. “And here I thought it was ten.” He shakes his head, with a smile of false contrition. “Silly me.” 

A lump of weight jumps onto the couch, then settles into his lap with a content meow. Harry frowns, then shakes his head, undoing his efforts of hair neatness, and says, “You just want me gone so that you can watch something with boobs.” 

James raises an eyebrow. “You’re like four-years-old,” he tells his very much not four-year-old child. “You shouldn’t even know what breasts are.” He frowns. “Where did you learn that from? Was it that Timothy boy?” 

He doesn’t know if there’s actually a Timothy, but the name seems like a child who spends time wacking off to dirty pictures of swimsuit models and infecting innocent others with his behavior. He imagines Lily in this situation. She’d probably have given their son a breakdown of the function of the female breast, just to freak him out for life. 

_ Or take him to a strip club _ , James thinks with sardonic amusement,  _ just to make sure he never thinks about sex _ . 

“I’m ten, Dad. Who’s Timothy? Do you mean Simon?” 

With a smirk, James begins to say, “Simon, right. Well, if you boys want to see a woman perform the most beautiful act of mo—”

“No! No! Stop! I don’t need to see that again!” 

Not even bothering to ask (he’s already heard about it from Yael five times in the last week), James tells him, “Then you really shouldn’t be talking about breasts. Not mature enough yet, clearly.” 

In the dining room, Queen turns into R.E.M, and, in the living room, Marty McFly’s “don’t call me chicken” makes for an interesting sound mix. Harry’s not paying any attention, however. His green eyes focus on James with a steely look in his eyes that’s one-hundred percent his mother, and James inwardly prepares for the question he knows he’s about to hear. 

The death knell words. “You said I’d get my letter after dinner.” 

James’ stomach twists into a tangled jump rope knot. “Yeah,” he says, seemingly with agreement. He shoves his hands into both his pockets, and deliberately avoids brushing against the envelope so that no telltale crinkles sings like a canary. The sudden movement displaces Galadriel with an angry hiss, and then, he frowns. “Where is it?” 

He shoves his right hand deeper into his right pocket, and shifts, being careful to avoid shoving deeper into his left. Thankful, not for the first time, for extension charms, too, so that he can at least mimic movement with both hands. “I can’t find it.” He raises his eyebrows. “I think I might have binned it.” 

He smiles apologetically as he son lets out a long whine. “Dad! I don’t believe you! What if it was important? Ugh, why don’t you look at things before you toss them?” 

Harry throws his hands up in the air, and then moves, leaving the living room. James hears his feet thud dramatically up the stairs and then a door open and close with one last, “I don’t believe this.” 

Sirius walks in with a bowl of matzah ball soup, a spoon raised halfway to his lips, and his left eyebrow near his hairline. “Well,” he says with a bite of soup. “That was classy. Should put him in the pictures.” 

His friend sits down in the vacated spot, and puts his feet up right on top of James’. 

James throws his head back over the couch cushions, neck extended unpleasantly, and groans. “Why couldn’t Dumbledore have just minded his own business? Does he even have jurisdiction in America?” 

Sirius shrugs, and spears a matzah ball in half. He’s added leftover chicken bits to the broth. “It’s Dumbledore, mate. He’s probably got jurisdiction on the moon.” 

The messy-haired brunette tosses the other man an angry glare, then with a  _ harumph _ , crosses his arm and watches Marty McFly fail at avoiding the incestuous attentions of his teenage mother, but his mind is full with images of England nonetheless. 

 

 

 

Harry throws the covers off of his body and slips as silently as one can manage in padded dog print socks into the hallway. He leaves the door open, since the room is dark anyway, and he’s not the type to bar out the world when sleeping. Quickly as he can manage, he shuffles down the steps, avoiding a mouse-shaped cat toy that squeaks unpleasantly, and goes to the kitchen. The dishes are still in the dish drain next to the sink, but they’re at least clean, and there are bits of challah torn apart into chunks on a plate in the corner, wrapped with plastic wrap. Shoved next to it, behind a tin of cereal and a container of sugar, is the mail from earlier. 

“Yes,” Harry whispers and moves towards the stack as speedily as he can manage. He grabs the pile, riffling through.  _ Bill, bill, bill, magazine subscription, postcard from Grandpa Newt, bill _ . Harry frowns, and flips through the stack again. “What? Please, please don’t have burned it.”

_ Maybe he really did toss it _ , Harry thinks, a second before it happens. 

_ Click _ . 

The kitchen, which upon entrance had been dark except for the snitch-shaped faerie light above the table, suddenly floods with brightness as if by command. Harry blinks as his eyes sting, and he curses, a word he’s heard his father repeat whenever he stubs his toe, the low  _ merde _ out before he has time to think, and then hears, “Looking for this?” 

Harry groans and, as slowly as he can manage, he puts the stack of bills back onto the counter, and turns on his heels with his hands raised in the eternal signal for surrender. Sitting at the table, leaning backwards into the chair balanced on two legs, Sirius sits as cool as a cucumber with a smirk on his face and the envelope between his middle and index finger. On the table, his wand sits next to an ashtray with several cigarette butts, an empty carton, and a half-drunk bottle of scotch. 

Harry’s face burns with a familiar sensation, and he slouches against the counter, scooting down an inch or three. “No! I mean—not really—not unless you want to give it to me?” He says the words slowly, carefully, his eyebrows scrunching, as he wrings his hands behind his back. 

Sirius’ smirk widens in that way of his, when one corner of his mouth, the left corner, uplifts just a crook, and then he says, “And why would I do that?” The chair pops back against the linoleum with a snap. “I  _ know _ your father wouldn’t be too happy with this, Bambi.” 

Harry scowls harder than the time Sebastian Anastas beat him in the fourth grade spelling bee. “He also said he threw out  _ my _ letter.” 

A barking laugh is his response. “And when you’re an adult then you can be as sour as a lemon over it, yeah? For now, trust that he has his reasons.” The smirk falls from his godfather’s face, and he rises and makes his way over, the edges of his snoopy pajama pants brushing against the floor. In two seconds, he kneels and balances on the balls of his feet in front of Harry. Eye level now, Sirius says, “Your dad loves you. More than anyone. He just wants what’s best for you.” 

It’s past midnight, and Harry’s running on adrenaline, but he still feels a sharp stab of guilt. His father’s never truly tried to dictate what he can and  _ can’t _ do before. When Harry wanted to ride the teacup ride at Disney fifteen times, to the chagrin of his aunt, his father went with him until they were both green in the face and bent over foul-smelling trash cans filled with Mickey Mouse wrappers and cotton candy. At nine, when he decided he wanted to try karate, James enrolled him, and then, two months later, when he gave it up, his father didn’t even scowl at the waste of money. 

James even managed start a Queen’s Junior Quidditch team,  _ and _ arrange matches with other wizarding teams for children in the area. All because Harry wanted to do it (not that it was exactly hard to convince his father to sponsor a Quidditch team. Harry’s half-sure his father would leave him, Sirius, and Galadriel for a quaffle if pressed). 

Harry sighs heavily, and feels like the weight of the world, an entire Atlas boulder, is on his shoulders. He droops further, the tips of his toes sliding across the floor. 

He justs wants to know what’s in the letter, and he’s not quite sure what his father is so afraid of. 

Sirius smiles, and it seems a bit sad. Harry thinks his grey eyes appear a bit less bright, almost as if he, too, feels fear. It’s gone as quickly as it comes, but Harry can’t shake the memory of it even as he falls asleep that night.  

 

 

 

James feels beads of sweat trail from his hairline, messy as ever, down his right cheek, and into the corners of his mouth. He grimaces at the salty taste, and brings his free hand up to wipe away the moisture. There are spots on his glasses, dirt and the remnants of a dead bug that smashed into the spectacles during high-speed velocity, and its times like this James wishes that contacts didn’t make him look like a backup singer for a seasonal allergy commercial. 

Next to him, Harry is panting with leftover bouts of exertion, his knee pads and child-style Quidditch robes, colorfully decked in orange and blue, unceremoniously on the ground next to his boot-clad feet. His face is red, and his hands look raw, probably from the force of his grip on his broom, but he’s smiling wider than a cat that ate a canary. 

James grins as six other laughing, sweaty faces gather around him in a cluck. “Alright, listen up my talented little dragonspawn! We did good out there! We beat those Manhattan buggers one-hundred-ten to twenty! I want you all to scream your victory!” He gestures towards the downtrodden team on the other side of the glamoured Quidditch pitch in Central Park. A part of him, the part that sounds a bit like Remus, thinks he should feel bad, but the pointy-faced one had been such a little git at the beginning of the match, he can’t help but desire to rub salt in the wound. 

To the side, a few parents shake their heads with embarrassment and shame, as the kids boo wildly towards their competitors. Others, like him, are clapping and grinning. 

Harry’s friend Tasha, a small girl with wire curls, calls out, “Take that you lily-pad hotdog eaters!” 

James shoots the girl an odd look, but the rest of the kids quickly take up the mantra, and so he goes to greet the parents with small talk, downing a water bottle as he does so. When the other coach comes over, to demand a rematch the following Sunday afternoon, their hands linger in a too forceful grip, but they nod amicably enough to one another. 

As people begin to file out, off to do Merlin knows what, James picks up the impossibly heavy bag of Quidditch equipment, though it’s charmed to be feather-light, and frowns, before his son begins to race across the grass. 

The wind ruffles Harry’s hair even messier than the flying, and James has to push his own too long strands away from obstructing his eyesight once they are out of the park and in search of food truck fare. With no hint of embarrassment, though Harry scowls at him, he draws out two brown hair bands and pulls his son’s hair back, though the hair’s barely past the ends of his ears, then does the same to his own. 

“Dad!” Harry protests. The hairstyle makes the odd, lightning shaped scar his son’s carried for years stand out prominently. 

“What?” James says, and pretends not to have a clue as to the source of his son’s irritation. Harry frowns, throws his hands up into the air with defeat, before he spots an ice cream truck and, in the way that only children truly can, quickly forgets everything in favor of racing to the back of the long line. 

They find an empty bench and listen to the sounds of pedestrians, traffic, small dogs, and birds, cones of chocolate and raspberry in their hands. James straddles the bench, while Harry sits with his legs crossed under him, and attacks the treat with vigor. 

“So,” James says, licking a long stripe of chocolate ice cream. “Do you know the interesting thing Sirius told me last night? About Friday, I mean. It concerned you, so I’m sure you’re well aware of it already.” 

Harry’s eyes widen behind his round glasses. “ _ Je ne sais pas _ .” 

James chuckles, a flash of memory striking at how he said just that to his mother every time she asked why something was missing, blow-up, or deconstructed during his childhood.  

“Quit it, kid,” James says playfully. “You lost the cherub look at age  _ seven _ . You’re all limbs and ankles, it’s not meshing with the doe-eyes.” 

Harry’s teeth come out like a bunny to scrap at his bottom lip. “If you’re going to ground me, does that mean I can miss Sebastian’s birthday party?” 

If James isn’t wrong, and he’s never wrong, really, there’s a hint of hope in his son’s voice. 

But he’s not here for that. As he looks to the bag, all the teasing and joy dies inside like a lightbulb last spark of electricity. He wants to toss the bag away from them and into the street, watch as a taxi runs it over into a pancake, but he knows with vivid clarity that it will do no good. The letters will just keep coming.

_ And Padfoot’s right _ , he tells himself,  _ I have to let Harry make his own choices. It’s what Lily would have done _ . 

The thought of it, though, of his baby boy being so far from him, and not just far, but  _ there _ , well, it leaves him feeling sick to his stomach. Sirius doesn’t think he’ll jump at the chance to go to a land that lauds fish-and-chips as gourmet cuisine, but James isn’t to sure. 

“No one’s going to make you play his Nintendo if you don’t want to,” he tells his kid. Harry’s smiles, and takes another happy bite of his ice cream, before his look turns to one of concern at the lack of smile on his father’s face. 

“Dad?” 

James doesn’t answer. He stares, unblinkingly, at the bag by his feet. His stomach twists, and chocolate cream runs a line of sticky goop over his wrist. 

“Bamp á s?” Harry tries again. Still, James doesn’t answer. It’s like a snitch has launched itself down his throat and its tiny wings are beating a staccato gag against his windpipe. “Papa? Aba?” 

James takes in his haggard appearance in the shine of a buckle on the bag. Dark circles, three-day stubble, and red veins shoot through the white of his eyes.

Harry pokes him in the ribcage. “Should I call Sirius? Are you having a stroke?” There’s nothing less than a fuckton of worry in his son’s voice. 

It allows him the ability to sigh past the terror. “I’m fine,” James says, and he lets a small, trembling sort of smile form. 

It doesn’t retreat, not even when he hands the letter to his son. 

Not even when Harry drops it onto the ground and it blows away, his eyes as round as quarters, and filled with unadulterated shock. 


End file.
